


Breaking Serve

by Suzie_Shooter



Series: Service Game [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tennis, Anal Sex, Celebration sex, Coming Out, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Hand Jobs, Long-Term Relationship(s), Love, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Willpower, physical assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 14:04:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1943958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos and Aramis are tennis doubles partners, under the stern eye of coach Treville. Athos is Porthos' lover, and his ex-doubles partner-turned-commentator, since a drink problem forced him to retire from the game. </p><p>Porthos is on track to take the Wimbledon men's doubles title with Aramis - but not everyone wants him to win, and it may be that the best way to take him down is through Athos...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking Serve

**Author's Note:**

> Tennis AU, sequel to [Holding Serve](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1836157) and [Returning Serve](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1860006).
> 
> T/W: Contains descriptions of struggles with alcoholism, past and present.

"And where do you boys you think you're going?"

Porthos and Aramis froze in the act of putting their racquets away and exchanged a guilty look.

"Well I _was_ going home for dinner," Porthos sighed.

"And I was hoping to get laid," Aramis added cheerfully.

Treville ignored that in favour of glaring at them both equally. "And when I said at least two hours' practice?"

"I played two hours earlier," Porthos pointed out.

"Yes, in a singles match which you lost in straight sets," Treville snapped back. "Which tells me you're not on the form you should be. So I'm making it three hours."

They groaned, but Treville was implacable and Porthos and Aramis reluctantly walked back out onto the practice court.

"He's right you know," Aramis murmured. "If we want to be in with a shot of the title we need all the edge we can get."

Porthos grinned. "For God's sake don't tell him that. I'd hate him to think we were actually paying attention."

It was the second week of Wimbledon, and they'd been making steady if unflashy headway towards the final. Porthos had made it to the fourth round of singles before being taken out by one of the top seeds earlier that day, while to no-one's surprise Aramis had gone straight out in the first round. They both performed better together, and Aramis claimed he'd got the result he wanted anyway when he'd taken home one of the ball boys. Porthos still hadn't stopped teasing him about that, despite Aramis' indignant protestations that technically D'Artagnan was a ball-man. Mostly, that just made Porthos laugh harder.

With a wary eye on Treville, who'd settled himself in the empty stand and appeared to be taking notes, they picked up where they left off, oblivious to the fact that barely two miles away a very different struggle was taking place.

\--

Athos stared at the bottle sitting in the centre of the table. The bottle of whisky seemed to stare back at him implacably, and Athos shook his head to try and dislodge the sensation. He couldn't quite believe it was actually there, but now that it was he couldn't take his eyes off it. Transfixed, like a rabbit by a snake. A rabbit that suddenly, desperately, wanted to be eaten.

He licked his lips, feeling a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck. Having spent the last few years trying so hard to convince himself he was over this, that he didn't need this, suddenly Athos could remember with a shivering clarity the exact taste, the burn in his throat, the way it would make him feel. Remembered attaining that one moment of supreme peace where nothing hurt. Once upon a time that had been generally somewhere halfway down the first bottle, only it had become harder and harder to reach. And he remembered too the fallout, the comedown, the shattering reactions. The days spent in an aching, retching daze as he tried to wean himself off it, only to slide backwards again and again and again.

Athos discovered he'd reached out without realising it, his fingertips caressing the curve of the bottle, and snatched his hand back. It had been so long since he'd touched the stuff, that moment of peerless nirvana would surely be attainable after barely a glass.

He balled his hand into a fist and forced himself to turn away. He knew from bitter experience, that he wouldn’t be able to stop at one glass. That the bottle might as well have been filled with amber poison. And still he wanted it.

Hand trembling, he dug his mobile out of his pocket and dialled Porthos. He should have been home by now, had been out training with Aramis. Athos wasn't sure he'd pick up, but after a few rings Porthos answered.

"Hello?" He sounded gruff and out of breath, and Athos took a second to find his voice.

"Hey. It's me." Athos sounded distant to his own ears, but before he could say any more, Porthos had interrupted.

"Athos, what is it? Look, we're going to be another hour or so here, we're getting stuck in, okay? I'll see you later. Don't wait for me if you want to eat."

Athos licked dry lips again, shooting a wary glance at the bottle in the centre of the table as if it might have snuck closer while his back was turned. He knew regardless of circumstances, if he told Porthos what the problem was, he would drop everything and come to him. Had done it, countless times over the hellish year it had taken Athos to painfully put himself halfway back together again. 

Athos had thought he'd put all that behind him. Porthos had built his own career up again now, and he had no right to jeopardise it like this. Besides, he could do this. He could.

"Athos?" Porthos sounded impatient. "You still there?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm here. It's fine, I'll see you later." Athos chewed at his thumbnail as Porthos said a quick goodbye and hung up. Pictured him tossing his phone back into his kitbag, rejoining Aramis on the practice court. Forgetting about the conversation in less time than the short exchange itself had taken.

He had his hand round the neck of the bottle and had no idea how it had got there. Didn’t remember doing it. He'd been going to put it away, yes, that was it. Shove it in a cupboard somewhere out of sight. Out of mind.

He’d picked off the foil from round the top. When had he done that?

"Shit." Athos put his head in his hands. He could get up. Go out. Drive somewhere, except his hands were shaking and maybe that wasn’t a good idea.

A drink would steady them, he knew that much. At least for a while.

Why was this happening? Where had it _come_ from?

Athos' hand was creeping closer to the bottle again when the doorbell went and he nearly fell out of his chair in guilty alarm. Stumbling to his feet, he wondered if it was Porthos, somehow come to check on him - except there was no way he'd have got here that quickly, and he had a key.

Grateful for the distraction Athos made his way to the front door and pulled it open. The young man who stood there he'd never seen before in his life and Athos stared at him blankly.

"Hey." The boy gave him a cheerful smile that faltered a little as Athos frowned at him, uncomprehending. "Uh - sorry to bother you, but, um, Aramis said to meet him here?"

Something Porthos had said a few days ago clicked into place with the boy's appearance - longish dark hair, dark eyes, an open expression that somehow managed to be innocent and knowing at the same time.

"Right. Right - uh - D'Artagnan, yes?"

D'Artagnan nodded, clearly relieved.

Athos nodded too, distractedly. "They're not back yet I'm afraid. Still practising."

"Oh. Right. Well I guess I'll - wait out here then, if that's okay?"

Athos blinked, suddenly remembering his manners. "No, sorry, come in, it's fine."

"I don't want to be a bother?"

"Really. No trouble." Athos held the door open for him and reflected guiltily that D'Artagnan's arrival had possibly been just in the nick of time to save him from doing something irrevocably stupid.

"It's Athos right?" D’Artagnan was smiling at him rather shyly now. "It's nice to meet you. You were my hero when I was a kid."

Athos hesitated. "Thanks," he said rather dryly, but D'Artagnan was already wincing in embarrassment.

"Sorry - sorry, that - that came out entirely wrong, I didn't - I mean, it was only a couple of years ago." D’Artagnan gave him a sheepish grin, going scarlet with mortification.

Athos smiled. "It's fine. Really. Don’t worry about it. Do you want a coffee or something?" He walked back into the kitchen automatically then stopped short as the bottle caught his eye again.

"No, thanks, I'm fine," D'Artagnan was saying, looking around him with interest. He noticed the whisky on the table and frowned curiously. He knew Athos' history, and it seemed a curious centrepiece, considering. Although maybe it was some sort of weird willpower thing. 

Athos had sunk down into one of the kitchen chairs as if he'd already forgotten D'Artagnan's presence, and was staring at the bottle rather glassily.

"Uh - are you okay?" D'Artagnan asked cautiously.

"Mmmn." Athos didn’t look up and D'Artagnan bit his lip. 

"You know what, maybe I will have that coffee, if that's okay?"

"Yeah. Sure." Athos still didn’t move.

"I'll - make it myself then?" D'Artagnan got no response and shrugged, filling the kettle and staring to go through the kitchen cupboards until he came up with a cafetiere and an opened packet of coffee. The fridge yielded nothing but salad and a tub of chopped pineapple and D'Artagnan raised his eyebrows, thinking longingly of his own that was mostly full of cold pizza, left over chinese and beer.

"You got any milk?"

Athos dragged himself round to look at him, frowning as if concentrating was hard. "Porthos and I both drink it black. Sorry, I don't think we bothered." Too distracted to think of hiding the fact of their living together, and assuming that in any case, D'Artagnan would know about it from Aramis.

"No worries. Got any sugar?" D'Artagnan didn’t normally take it, but something was telling him it was a good thing to keep Athos talking.

"Somewhere. Top shelf?" 

D'Artagnan found a torn packet that looked like it had probably been purchased by a previous tenant at least three occupants ago, and spooned some into his mug, before pouring both of them out some coffee.

Athos looked surprised when D'Artagnan put a mug in front of him. "Oh. Thank you."

"No problem." D'Artagnan sat opposite Athos and regarded him. "Look - tell me to butt out if this is none of my business, but - are you okay?"

Athos' gaze flickered up briefly, then back to the bottle. D'Artagnan tried again. 

"Would you like me to take that somewhere?"

"What?" Athos looked up properly this time, his attention finally caught. D'Artagnan took a deep breath. "I mean - you're teetotal, right?" Athos nodded. "So I figured maybe you - don’t want to touch it? I'm just saying, I could - get rid of it, if you didn’t want to?" D'Artagnan faltered, wondering if he was way out of line. But Athos didn't seem to have taken offence.

"Thank you. No, it's - it's fine." Athos took a shuddering breath and laid his hands flat on the table, pushing himself back slightly. "I'm fine."

"Forgive me, but you don’t look fine." D'Artagnan hesitated, wary of wading in where he wasn’t welcome, but sensing all was not well. "Should you even have that?"

Athos shook his head slowly. "Someone sent it to me."

"What?" 

"Left it on the doorstep." Athos looked up again, and blinked at D'Artagnan as if surprised to see him there, or perhaps trying to remember his name. "I don't know why."

"That seems - cruel."

"Cruel?" Athos looked surprised. "I hadn't thought of it like that." He went back to staring at the bottle, in an intent way that made D'Artagnan distinctly uncomfortable. "I'm fine though," Athos said softly. "I don't - don't need it any more, you see."

"Yeah. Right." D'Artagnan nodded soothingly, and got to his feet. "I'm just gonna - make a phone call, okay?" He edged out of the room, but Athos didn’t even appear to notice him go. 

In the hallway, D’Artagnan called Aramis. It rang and rang and he was just despairingly expecting it to click over to answerphone when Aramis' voice came on the line.

"Hey D'Artagnan, sorry, _sorry_ , completely forgot to tell you we were staying behind. Are you with Athos?" Sounding vaguely guilty that he'd not thought to warn either of them.

"Yeah. Look, is Porthos there? Because I think he should come home. I think - I think Athos kinda needs him right now," D'Artagnan said in a low, urgent voice. 

"Oh. Okay." Aramis sounded startled. "Well we were about finished up here anyway. We'll be back soon as, okay?"

"Make it sooner." D'Artagnan hung up, only then registering the fact he'd just cut off the man of his dreams mid-sentence and wincing. He hurried back into the kitchen, relieved to see Athos still where he'd left him.

Athos looked up, a faint sheen of sweat on his face, his thumbnails bleeding where he'd been picking stressfully at the cuticles. "Talk to me?" he pleaded softly.

"What about?" D'Artagnan, normally the world's chattiest man, found his mind went immediately blank. 

Athos shrugged helplessly. "Anything. Nothing. Doesn't matter. Just - talk to me?" 

So D’Artagnan talked, about his childhood, his love for tennis, his family, his love life. He talked about how Athos had been his idol growing up, how gutted he'd been when he retired from the game, how determined he'd been to hate Aramis when he'd heard Porthos was taking a new partner. How that had lasted exactly as long as it took for him to actually _see_ Aramis on court. How stunned he'd been when he'd finally met Aramis in the flesh and found that not only was Aramis as gay as every single one of D'Artagnan's fantasies had dictated, but had also been entirely willing to sweep D'Artagnan off his feet and into bed.

He was debating the wisdom of giving Athos a literal blow by blow account of the subsequent night, when there was the sound of a key in the lock and seconds later a frantic and worried Porthos barrelled into the room.

"Athos! What the fuck?" He took in Athos' flushed and guilty expression, the bottle of whisky on the table, and stumbled forwards, face haggard. "Athos - you didn't - tell me you didn't - " 

Porthos half fell onto him, gathering Athos into his arms and hugging him tightly. Athos clung to him, shaking with the release of tension and burying his face in Porthos' shoulder.

"I didn't. I haven't. I swear," Athos managed, voice muffled. Porthos rocked him, fingers clenching in Athos' shirt. He looked round and gestured wildly at the bottle. 

"Get that out of here," he ordered blindly.

Aramis, who'd been hovering in the doorway giving D’Artagnan mystified glances, picked it up. "What do you want me to do with it?" he asked.

"I don't fucking care, just get it out of here," Porthos shouted. "Out of the house." 

"I'll put it in the car," Aramis said, although no-one appeared to care. He shrugged and walked out, D'Artagnan remaining, awkwardly watching Porthos and Athos clinging to each other, but reluctant to leave.

"I'm sorry," Porthos was saying, sounding wretched. "I'm sorry. Why didn’t you say? If you'd said what the matter was, I'd have come home, you know I would."

"I know." Athos' breathing was becoming steadier, now the bottle had gone, now Porthos was here, now he no longer had to be strong. "I just - I didn’t want to bother you."

 _"Athos."_ Porthos groaned, angry with himself, knowing now that Athos had called him for help, replaying his own terse side of the conversation in his head with a sick sense of guilt.

"What happened Athos?" Porthos pleaded. "Why didn't you tell me things were this bad?"

Athos shook his head, still clasped in Porthos' arms, both of them somehow awkwardly occupying the same chair. He didn't know what to say without making it sound like an excuse, but as Aramis walked back in it was D’Artagnan who came to his rescue.

"He said someone sent it to him?" D'Artagnan ventured cautiously. "He said it was left on the doorstep."

"Is that true?" Porthos pulled back and looked at Athos in astonishment. Athos nodded towards the kitchen bin, and Aramis fished out the wad of crumpled packaging on the top. He unfolded it on the table, stiff plain paper with pieces of sticky tape, a tall box, and a card.

"To Athos, From A Well-wisher," he read out. "Well. That's the most sinister thing I've seen all day."

"And it was just on the doorstep?" Porthos repeated.

Athos nodded tiredly. "I found it there when I came home after your match. I'd unwrapped it before I realised what it was, and then - " he sighed. "Guess I'm not as through it all as I thought." He leaned defeatedly against Porthos who held him in a fiercely protective embrace. 

"You're doing fine," Porthos said stubbornly, kissing him on the side of the head. "But I want to know who the fuck sent you a thing like that."

"I guess it was just a fan who didn't know any better," Athos sighed.

D'Artagnan shook his head. "That was an expensive bottle. Anyone who's going to fork out for a present like that is surely going to be enough of a fan to know about your - " he hesitated. "Situation."

"Addiction," Athos corrected quietly. "It's okay. You can say it." He mustered a smile. "And thank you, D'Artagnan. For everything you've done for me this evening."

"I didn’t do anything." D'Artagnan blushed, but Athos shook his head. 

"You turned up," Athos said simply. "And you saw something was wrong, and you didn't go away." He bowed his head in shame. "I'm sorry you had to see me being so weak. Guess I must be something of a disappointment in the flesh."

"No." D'Artagnan shook his head, and Athos looked up again questioningly. "You're not weak," D’Artagnan insisted. "You - you wanted that bottle, you wanted a drink, so badly, I could see that. But you didn't take it. And, you could have, because frankly I'd only just met you and I wouldn’t have had the balls to stop you. But I don't think you would have, even if I hadn't been there. Seriously, that was - the strongest thing I've ever seen. So no, you're not a disappointment Athos, I think you're pretty fucking amazing." 

D'Artagnan stumbled to a halt, looking embarrassed, but Aramis clapped him on the back. "Well said." 

"Seconded." Porthos kissed Athos roughly on the cheek. "You twat."

Athos, who was by now mostly sitting in his lap, half-laughed. He was feeling better every moment, surrounded by people who somehow, amazingly, weren't judging him.

"I still don't understand though," Porthos said. "Who could have enough of a grudge against you to do a thing like that?"

"Maybe Athos wasn't the target," D'Artagnan suggested, and blushed again as they all looked at him.

"It was addressed to me," Athos pointed out. 

"Yeah. But - if someone didn't want Porthos and Aramis to get through to the final - what's the one thing that could distract you enough to knacker your chances?" he asked them all meaningfully.

It was Athos who caught on first. "If I was to have a major meltdown," he said slowly.

Porthos paled. "That's - criminal. Worse, it's sick."

"But it is possible," Aramis conceded heavily. "And you know who would come up with something like this? Who would benefit?"

"Rochefort and Bonacieux?" Porthos asked scornfully. They were the top seeds in the mens' doubles, their arch rivals, and he and Aramis were on course to meet them in the final. "They wouldn't have the balls." 

"Wasn't thinking of them," Aramis murmured. "More their coach."

"Richelieu?" Porthos raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, you might have a point there. He'd certainly be devious enough." Richelieu had once tried to lure Porthos away from Treville at a time when Porthos had been in freefall down the rankings, arguing that Treville clearly wasn't attending to his training needs and that Athos was a toxic weight around his neck. Without being aware of the fact that Porthos and Athos were in a relationship, so it had backfired on him rather, and the man had been bitter about it ever since.

"Maybe I'll have a little word," Porthos said meaningfully. 

\--

Aramis and D'Artagnan left some time later, and as they climbed into Aramis' car, he looked across at D’Artagnan in the passenger seat and gave him an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, about all that. Wasn't quite what I intended for this evening." Feeling faintly embarrassed, firstly that he'd failed to meet D'Artagnan in the place they'd arranged, or warn Athos of his imminent arrival, and secondly that D'Artagnan had immediately become embroiled in such a drama. Aramis hoped he hadn't blown his chances. D'Artagnan had been a casual pick-up, and it was hardly fair on him to have made him go through all that.

"S'okay." D'Artagnan smiled at him. "Glad I could help." He propped his knees up on the dashboard and stared ahead consideringly. "It's funny. When I was a kid, I used to watch Athos and Porthos playing together and - well I guess I was that age, y'know? I used to pretend to myself that they were lovers and stuff. And now it turns out that they were, all along. And they still are. Are you look at them, and it's so clear they love each other, and after everything they've been through." D’Artagnan caught the curious look Aramis was giving him and blushed, shrugging. "Well. Gives you hope, doesn't it? That there might be someone that special out there for you."

"Yes," Aramis said softly. "I guess it does." He rested his hands on the steering wheel, and looked back at D'Artagnan. "What do you fancy doing? It's got a bit late to go somewhere for dinner," he said apologetically.

D'Artagnan gave him a sideways look from under his hair. "Could always go back to yours?" he suggested hopefully.

The knowing smile that spread across Aramis' face had D'Artagnan stiffening in his jeans before Aramis had even got the car in gear.

\--

When Porthos climbed into bed that night Athos was already there, curled silently under the covers in t-shirt and boxers and facing away from him. Porthos wriggled up behind and wrapped an arm around his chest, relieved when Athos acknowledged him by pressing a kiss to his hand. 

"You alright?" Porthos asked quietly.

"Yeah." Athos' hesitant reply was more than half-sigh, and Porthos hugged him. 

"Honestly?"

Athos considered. "Yeah. I think so. Just a bit - shaken up by it all, I guess," he admitted under his breath.

"Mmmn." Porthos pressed closer, tucking his knees up behind Athos' legs so they were spooned together from chest to feet. "Well, I'm right here, okay?"

Athos turned his head enough to kiss Porthos' bare shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"What for?" 

Athos lay his head back down on the pillow and sighed. "I seem to keep fucking your life up."

"Hey." Porthos propped himself up on one elbow and tugged at Athos until he rolled over to face him. "Can we get one thing straight?" Porthos asked seriously, staring at Athos in the dim light. "You _are_ my life. Everything else is just so much window-dressing. If I seriously had to choose between you and my career, I'd give it all up tomorrow. In a heart-beat."

He paused, grasping for the words to make Athos understand. "You need to stop feeling guilty," Porthos said quietly. "Every time I've ever put you first, that's been my decision to make. And I know it's sometimes weighed on you, and I wish - I hope you understand how much I love you, but sometimes I just wish I could make you understand _why_ I do."

"Because you're an idiot?" Athos said softly, and Porthos groaned. 

"Don't do that. Don't laugh it off." 

"I'm not. I just don't know what else to say," confessed Athos helplessly. He put his arms around Porthos and kissed him. "I love you. And I am eternally grateful and constantly bemused by the fact you love me." Porthos started to say something, and Athos stopped him with another kiss. "But I can't cope with analysing all this," he whispered. "Not tonight. My head's in too many places. Just hold me?"

Porthos sighed, giving Athos a resigned smile and folding him back into his arms, so his chest was snug against Athos' back, and their hands were clasped together. 

"Sorry," Porthos murmured, when they were settled comfortably. "I didn't mean to lay it on so thick."

"You don't have to apologise," Athos told him sleepily. "Not for being nice to me. Even I'm not that much of a dick."

Porthos snorted. "Matter of opinion."

Athos smiled in the dark. "What happened to it, out of interest? That bottle?"

"I think Aramis took it. He's probably finished it off with D'Artagnan by now. Look on the bright side, you probably just got them both laid." Porthos felt Athos laughing silently against him, and closed his eyes with a smile. They might have ups and downs in life, but as long as he could still end every day like this, with Athos in his arms, he was content.

\--

Waking the next morning, Porthos found Athos gazing at him quietly from the other pillow, and his eyes crinkled into a smile.

"Hey you," Porthos said fondly, then found his arms unexpectedly full of Athos as he launched himself forward. "Mmmn." Athos was already kissing him, tongue deep in his mouth, and Porthos could feel that he was hard in his boxers.

"Someone's frisky this morning," Porthos growled, clutching Athos to him in approval and kissing him back thoroughly.

Athos gave a breathy laugh against his neck, ducking his head in embarrassment. 

"That wasn't a complaint by the way," Porthos murmured, kissing him again and rubbing himself meaningfully against Athos' erection.

Athos drew back enough to regard him, and Porthos was glad to see the look in his eyes was significantly lighter than the night before. 

"I suppose I had a bit of an epiphany," Athos said.

"By yourself? Dirty bugger," Porthos grinned, and Athos smacked him on the arm and sighed.

"No, I just - I woke up, and thought - the sun's shining, the birds are singing, and I'm in bed with a gorgeous man. So why aren't I taking advantage of it instead of lying here feeling sorry for myself?" Athos said quietly.

"Feel free to take advantage of me as much as you like," Porthos said immediately, pulling him on top and enjoying the way Athos pushed against him.

"I want you," Athos murmured in between increasingly heated kisses. 

"I'm all yours," Porthos agreed whole-heartedly, already stiff as a board and entirely willing to oblige Athos in anything he wanted. He knew Athos' moods could shift unpredictably, and had been fearful that after the events of the previous night Athos would sink into a prolonged low spell. Consequently the fact that Athos had woken up unexpectedly cheerful and horny was something to be encouraged on all fronts.

As they fucked though, he wasn't blind to the fact there was a certain desperation in the way Athos took him, his ragged, panting breath hot against Porthos' cheek, Athos thrusting into him fast and hard. Not that Porthos objected in the least, but he wondered how much of this was Athos trying to convince _himself_ that everything was okay. 

Athos' rough and dirty approach meant Porthos came in double quick time, not bothering to hold himself back. Moments later Athos too came to a gasping, spasming climax, collapsing over Porthos' chest and clinging to him as if the room was swaying. 

"Fuck," Athos said weakly, and Porthos laughed, helping him dispose of his condom and then hugging him close. "Sorry. That was - I needed that," Athos managed.

Porthos kissed him, and shook his head. "Did you just apologise for fucking my brains out? Are you insane?"

Athos laughed, then coughed, still short of breath. "Is that where you keep them?" he teased when he could speak again, waggling Porthos' now soft cock in his hand.

"At least that way I can claim you want me for my brains," Porthos grinned.

\--

Porthos' first mission of the day was to seek out Richelieu, and he finally ran him to ground on the balcony outside the players' restaurant, watching the crowds below with a disdainful expression.

"I want a word with you," Porthos demanded, cornering him against the rail.

Richelieu looked him up and down with interest. "Come to your senses and sacked Treville at last?" he surmised. "My door is always open to a player of your calibre."

Porthos scowled. "I'm sure Rochefort and Bonacieux would be pleased to know your allegiance is so easily swayed."

Richelieu shrugged carelessly. "What is it you want then if you're determined to remain mediocre?"

"It's about Athos."

"Oh really? How is he these days? Still drinking? Must be such a trial for you, really, you have the patience of a saint."

Porthos balled his fists furiously, then made himself calm down with a considerable effort. He wouldn’t put it past Richelieu to have considered the fact if he could get Porthos to punch him, he could have him thrown out of the competition for it. Losing his temper and making wild accusations wouldn’t help, and the man was clearly trying to rile him on purpose; everyone knew Athos had been dry for years. Unless there was more behind the pointed dig than merely spite.

"About that. He says someone left him a little present yesterday," Porthos said tightly. "A bottle of whisky. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

Richelieu put a hand to his chest in a gesture that managed to be simultaneously dramatic and sarcastic. "Me? Why should you think I would know anything about what Athos says people are sending him?" He shook his head in a semblance of concern. "He didn’t touch it, I hope?"

"Of course he bloody didn't!" Porthos realised he was shouting, and winced.

Richelieu inclined his head. "Hmmn. How terribly sensible of him."

"So you wouldn’t happen to have left a bottle on our doorstep recently then?" Porthos snapped, awkwardly aware he was dangerously close to being accused of slander. 

Richelieu though didn't react to the implied accusation, just looked at him thoughtfully. "You and Athos never won here, did you?"

Porthos glowered. "We came close." They'd got to the final once, but lost in five sets. It had been at a stage where Athos' drinking had been having more of an effect on his performance that either he was willing to admit, or Porthos to acknowledge. And even then it had been a close run thing.

"Runner up is still losing." Richelieu folded his hands up the sleeves of his fleece and looked smug. "And this story of a bottle appearing on the doorstep seems very convenient. Are you sure he wants you to win?"

"What the hell are you saying?"

"Well." A cold smile played around Richelieu's lips. "Perhaps you should look closer to home for your saboteur before accusing others, hmmn?"

Porthos watched him go with a cold feeling in his stomach. Athos would never lie to him, he told himself. Promptly remembering all the times Athos had done exactly that when he'd been at his lowest, all the times he'd told Porthos he'd stopped drinking and hadn't. 

He wasn't drinking now, Porthos was at least sure of that. But that didn't mean he wasn't fighting himself over it. Porthos rubbed his eyes, groaning. What if Richelieu was right? Could it be that the prospect of watching him and Aramis win something they'd never managed together be eating away at Athos? Or was that just what Richelieu wanted him to think? 

\--

As the next few days went by, Richelieu's words refused to leave Porthos alone and he found he kept coming back to the possibility that Athos had made it all up and bought the bottle himself. He didn't want to believe it, but as he and Aramis won first their quarter- and then semi-final matches, he couldn't help but notice Athos becoming quieter and more withdrawn.

In bed the night before the final, Porthos couldn't sleep. He was still going over and over it in his mind, and finally conceded that whoever had been responsible, the end result was the same in that he was certainly distracted and worried enough that it was starting to affect his equilibrium. There was only one thing he could sensibly do.

"Athos. You awake?" he murmured.

"Yeah," came the soft reply, and Athos rolled over, curling up against his side and kissing his arm. "You okay?"

Porthos realised guiltily that he'd probably been fidgeting and sighing ever since they'd gone to bed, and keeping Athos awake as well.

"Will you mind?" Porthos asked quietly, before he could chicken out. "If Aramis and I win?"

Athos went still, then the bedclothes rustled as he sat up. It was too dark to make out more than shapes, but Porthos could tell Athos was staring at him, and wished he could see his expression.

"What _are_ you talking about?" Athos said finally, and there was enough genuine surprise in his tone that Porthos relaxed a little. Although Athos had always been a bloody good actor.

Porthos sighed. "I just - we never won at Wimbledon, did we?"

"We got to the final," Athos said immediately, and Porthos smiled despite himself. It had been almost the same as his own defensive response to Richelieu.

"But we didn't win," Porthos murmured. 

"No. Sorry." Athos lay down again on his back, staring up into the dark and Porthos could have kicked himself. The last thing he'd wanted was for Athos to think he was blaming him for their loss.

"I didn't mean - Athos, that's not what I'm saying. It wasn't your fault."

"It was, though," Athos said quietly. "If I hadn't been sweating whisky and having to blink the tramlines into focus we'd have taken it."

Porthos hesitated. "You've never told me that before." It had been another six months before Athos' behaviour had become too bad to ignore, and another three after that before he'd finally submitted to the combined arguments of Porthos and Treville and booked himself into a clinic. 

"Lot of things I didn't tell you back then," Athos admitted softly. "Too afraid of losing you, I suppose."

Porthos shifted closer and slid an arm over Athos' stomach. "I'd never have left you," he whispered. Sensed Athos turning to look at him in the dark, and kissed him softly on the mouth.

"I didn't know that then," Athos whispered back finally. "I couldn't see any worth in myself, I hardly expected you to." He traced the line of Porthos' cheek and jaw with his fingers, almost wonderingly. "What did you mean?" he said finally. "About minding if you win?"

"I just - thought you might," Porthos said awkwardly. "You know. If I pull it off with Aramis instead of you." 

Athos was silent for a moment. "I was so jealous of him, in the beginning," he admitted under his breath. 

"You never told me that, either," Porthos accused, and Athos smiled slightly. 

"How could I, when it was me telling you to do it?" he said. For a long time, Porthos had held out hope that Athos would return to be his partner once he'd got himself straight again, ignoring Treville's insistence he pair up with someone new and stubbornly only playing singles matches. It had taken Athos formally declaring his retirement from the game that finally convinced him to give in.

"I kept hoping you'd come back."

Athos sighed. "I know. But my heart wasn't in it any more. And you deserved someone better." He found Porthos' hand under the covers and squeezed it. "But then the two of you started winning everything, and for a while part of me hated that."

"Athos - "

"No, let me finish. That was a long time ago now. And let's face it, you and Aramis play better together than we ever did."

_"Athos!"_

"I said shut up," Athos said gently, folding Porthos' hand into both of his and patting it. "Like I said, since then - well, I got to know Aramis, and like him, and I suppose I've also got over myself a bit." He rolled onto his side and Porthos put his arm back round him, holding Athos close but this time not interrupting. 

"So yes, I absolutely want you to win this," Athos whispered. "Win it for us. Win it for _me._ "

Porthos kissed him then, relief and love and heartache all mingling inside him to an almost overwhelming degree. Athos kissed him back with equal fervour, and after one thing had lead to another it was some time before they finally settled back down to sleep.

It was only as Porthos was drifting off that the thought occurred to him that if the incident with the bottle hadn't been Athos on the brink of self-destructing, then it meant somewhere out there was still a very real threat.

\--

"Nervous?" Athos watched Porthos stuffing the final things into his bag and zipping up his jacket. 

"Nah." Porthos grinned at him, bouncing on his toes. "We're gonna mince 'em."

Athos smiled, stifling a laugh. "I like a man with confidence." In their last three meetings, Porthos and Aramis had lost to the other pair, and in terms of Grand Slam matches had only ever taken one set off them. 

Porthos pulled Athos closer and kissed him. "I've got a good feeling," he nodded. 

"That might just be how close you're standing," Athos murmured, and Porthos snickered and kissed him again. They held each other tight for a moment, until the blast of a horn outside indicated the car had arrived to pick them up. 

"Here goes nothing," Porthos said, setting his shoulders and picking up his bag. Athos followed him out, closing the door behind them and guessing from Porthos' tense posture that he was a lot less certain about the outcome than he was making out. 

As they walked down the short path, Athos made to take Porthos' hand, but Porthos pulled away slightly, glancing around self-consciously at the blank windows of the surrounding houses. Athos didn't push the point, but inwardly Porthos was cursing himself. He was nothing but proud of his relationship with Athos, but what with one thing and another they'd never come out openly. He hoped Athos hadn't taken it as a rejection, and as they slid into the back seat of the car and relative privacy, Porthos reached out for him. 

Athos just patted him on the hand, understanding Porthos' reluctance to be open in public, but Porthos persisted and entwined his fingers with Athos' on the seat, figuring that the driver had probably seen a lot worse whilst driving players about and regretting his initial rebuffal. They glanced at each other and shared a smile. 

Arriving at the Championships they shared another look, this time of restrained excitement. There was always more of a buzz on the final weekend and the crowds seemed bigger and more intense. As the car drove slowly in towards the players' enclosure they stared out of the windows eagerly, feeling a building sense of anticipation. They would part company soon, Athos heading off to join the commentary team for both doubles finals and Porthos for some last minute practice hitting with Aramis. 

Getting out of the car they were immediately pounced on by an impatient Treville who given half a chance would have pulled Porthos off by the ear, despite him being considerably bigger. Athos and Porthos gave each other a hasty hug.

"Good luck," Athos murmured. "Knock 'em dead." 

"It might come to that," Porthos grinned, and slapped him on the arse. Aramis wandered up at this point with D'Artagnan in tow, both of them holding cardboard cups of coffee and earning a glare from Treville. 

"I said no caffeine." 

"It's decaf," Aramis lied, winking at Athos. 

They were herded off by a muttering Treville, and Athos and D'Artagnan nodded to each other. 

"Will you be covering their match later?" D'Artagnan asked. Athos nodded, and he grinned. "Is it weird?"

"Always a bit odd, yeah," Athos admitted. "Broadcasters will overlook a certain amount of patriotism and pretty much everyone knows we're friends, but you still have to try and stay impartial." He looked at his watch. "I'd better get going, I've got to prep for the first match. See you later maybe?"

D'Artagnan nodded. "I'm going to be on court for the men's doubles," he said excitedly. "Look out for me!"

"No showing off for the cameras," Athos smiled, taken with his enthusiasm for what would amount to standing stock still in blazing sunshine for hours. "You'll get chucked out. Or worse, distract the players." 

D'Artagnan threw him a salute and grinned. "Best behaviour, I promise." 

\--

The ladies' doubles final was approaching the end of the second set and Porthos and Aramis were waiting on tenterhooks in one of the changing rooms, having showered and changed after their practise in readiness for their match. Bonacieux and Rochefort would be waiting in an identical room across the way, and everyone was tense. 

The match was showing on a monitor in the corner of the room, and after some fiddling Porthos managed to get the sound up. They were so intent on the fight playing out for the set - the holding or losing of which would determine whether they'd be on in minutes or potentially not for up to another hour - that it was some time before it dawned on them that the two commentators were both women and Athos didn't appear to be present at all.

"Where is he?" Porthos frowned. 

"Sure he was doing the BBC?" Aramis asked. There were numerous different stations and countries covering the championships, and Athos spent a lot of his time working for French television.

"Yeah, no, he was, definitely. They invited him 'cause of Alice and Adele getting to the final." Porthos rubbed a hand over his hair absently. "Why's he not there?"

On the monitor, the players went into a break between games, and as if they'd heard Porthos' question the commentators returned to discussing their missing colleague. 

"An hour and seven minutes, and it's looking like we might be heading for a third set here on Centre. And talking of thirds, still no sign of our third commentator, we're feeling abandoned up here in the box. Thinking of setting up a twitter campaign. Tweet us if you've seen him. Hashtag BuyAthosAnAlarmclock." They laughed, but Porthos was on his feet looking worried. "What do they mean? Is he missing? He was going straight up there."

Aramis grabbed him as Porthos made for the door. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to look for him," Porthos said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Are you crazy? We could be on in minutes. If you're not here we'll be disqualified. He's probably just lost track of time or something."

"For the entire ladies' doubles final?" Porthos retorted incredulously. "Something's happened to him, I know it."

"For fuck's sake Porthos, you _don't_ know that. Maybe he's just got stuck in the lift or something?"

Porthos dragged out his phone and checked for messages, but there was nothing. "What if it's something worse?" he asked miserably. "What if he needs me?"

"He wouldn't want you to miss the final," Aramis said firmly. "Whatever it is."

They stared at each other, both thinking of a time three years ago when Athos on the brink of a relapse had been the reason they'd been disqualified from Roland Garros when Porthos had gone to him instead of staying to play their semi-final match. 

In some ways, that had been a blessing in disguise, or at least a turning point. Athos had worked himself into such a state he genuinely hadn't realised what day or time it was, and Porthos hadn't told him until it was too late, mostly having assumed he knew. It had been Athos' guilt over that, the realisation that it wasn't just his own life he was fucking up any more, that had given him the determination to finally stick to his programme, and he hadn't touched a drop since.

Aramis sighed, relenting. "Do what you have to. But _please_ be back here in time."

Porthos nodded, squeezing his arm gratefully. "Even if they wrap it up there'll still be the prize ceremony to get through. Come with me?" he suggested. "We'll cover more ground together?"

"Actually, I've got a better idea," Aramis said, going back to his bag for his phone. "What we need, is a network of spies. People that are all over the whole place without being noticed." He dialled, listened for a second then smiled tightly. "D'Artagnan? It's me, Aramis. I need a favour. Can you ask around the rest of the ballboys and girls and find out if anyone's seen Athos? He's disappeared."

\--

To their relief the match out on Centre Court rolled on into a deciding set as they hurried across the complex trying to work out what might have occurred to divert Athos from the commentary box. He wasn't answering his phone, and Porthos had left a string of increasingly frantic voicemails.

Unsuccessful in their search of all the possible places Athos might reasonably have gone, they finally got a call back from D'Artagnan and caught up with him in the network of corridors beneath the television studios. He had a young teenage girl at his side, who looked both impressed and terrified as Aramis and Porthos ran up to them. 

"It's okay Ellie," D'Artagnan said reassuringly. "Tell them what you told me."

She swallowed. "I was told to give him a message," she managed in a tiny voice, flinching as Porthos swung round to look at her.

"Athos?" he demanded eagerly. "You've seen him?"

Ellie nodded. "I didn't mean any harm, I swear, I just told him what I was told to," she pleaded, and Porthos suppressed the urge to shake her by the shoulders. He crouched down instead, forcing a smile. 

"It's okay. Nobody's saying you're at fault," he said quietly. "But I need to know what you said to him, and where he went."

"And who told you to say it," Aramis added quickly.

"I - was told he was wanted in the service tunnels. To meet somebody down there," Ellis said in a small voice. 

They all looked at each other. Beneath the complex was a network of tunnels that spanned the complex, allowing deliveries in and rubbish out without impacting the public areas. It had never occurred to any of them to look down there, Athos would have had no reason for accessing them. 

"Who was he supposed to be meeting?" Porthos asked with forced patience.

Ellie looked at D’Artagnan anxiously and he nodded encouragingly. She turned to face Porthos. 

"You."

"What?" Porthos blinked, astonished.

"Makes sense if you think about it," Aramis said thoughtfully. "He'd have been suspicious of a message from anyone else."

"But - " Porthos looked bewildered. "Who told you to tell him this?"

Ellie shrugged helplessly. "I don't know her name."

"Her?" Aramis asked sharply. Ellie nodded. 

"I think she works here. One of the lines-people. She said the message was from you." 

"Would you know her again?" D'Artagnan asked.

"I guess so. I'm sorry. Is everything going to be okay?" Ellie asked.

"Of course. We just need to find him," Aramis smiled, patting her on the shoulder. "Thank you for your help."

"You two should get back," D'Artagnan said as Ellie ran off thankfully. "Let me go and look for Athos."

"No chance," Porthos told him firmly. "I need to know he's alright."

Aramis groaned, but made no objection as the three of them headed into the bowels of the building. The final door was blocked by swipe access, but to their amazement D'Artagnan's ID card got them through. He grinned at their look of surprise. 

"I work here the rest of the year in the restaurant. People forget this place exists outside these two weeks." 

"You're a handy man to know," Aramis smiled, slinging an arm round his shoulders. 

"Friends in low places?" D'Artagnan laughed, and Aramis kissed him.

Porthos was hurrying ahead into the darkened corridor. "Where the fuck's the light switch?" he called back.

"They're on sensors," D'Artagnan shouted after him. "Give it a - there we go." Strip lights flickered on in each section as their movement was registered and they ran on down the tunnel, Porthos several metres in front and slightly ahead of the lights. Consequently when he found Athos it was by almost tripping headlong over him.

"Fuck!" Porthos became aware of the dark shape in his path at the last second and took a flying leap over the top of it, landing heavily on the other side as the lights around him caught up and blinked on, revealing Athos lying crumpled and unmoving on the concrete floor.

"Athos!" Porthos threw himself to his side, cold horror clutching at his heart like a fist. Aramis dropped down the other side, reaching out carefully to examine him.

"It's okay, he's breathing," Aramis said quickly. Porthos sagged, weak with relief. "There's blood in his hair," Aramis added, frowning. "I think he's been hit."

"What?" Porthos stared, then looked back at Athos. "Can we move him?"

"I think we should get a doctor," Aramis advised. He checked his phone and scowled. "No signal down here. D'Artagnan, can you run up and fetch someone?"

D'Artagnan nodded quickly, but at that moment, perhaps roused by their voices, Athos groaned and stirred.

"Athos?" Ignoring Aramis' tut of disapproval, Porthos slipped his arms round Athos and helped him roll over into his lap. "Athos can you hear me?"

To his relief Athos opened his eyes, wincing and obviously confused.

"Porthos?" he mumbled. 

"Yeah." Porthos bowed his head over Athos' body, shoulders shaking with relief. "Yeah, I'm here."

"What happened?" Athos sounded slurred and dazed, but he was conscious and talking and Porthos felt like he could cry with thanks.

"You tell us," Aramis said, and Athos tried to look round at him, flinching as pain shot through his head. 

"Where am I?" Athos swallowed down the pain and tried to move again, noting with surprise the pale worried face of D'Artagnan at Aramis' shoulder. 

"Service tunnels," Porthos told him, helping him sit up.

Athos sat for a few minutes taking deep breaths until he felt a bit better and his thoughts came back into focus. "Someone told me you wanted to see me down here," he explained finally. 

"That message wasn't from me," Porthos told him grimly. "Why the hell would you think I'd arrange to meet you down here, anyway?"

Athos cast a look up at Aramis and D'Artagnan and shrugged slightly, looking embarrassed. "Well, we've fucked in stranger places," he muttered.

Porthos cleared his throat and Aramis and D'Artagnan tactfully pretended they hadn't heard. 

"How did you even get in?" D'Artagnan asked curiously.

"Tailgated someone," Athos confessed. "Wandered about looking for Porthos, thought I heard footsteps, then - bang. Lights went out." He felt the back of his head with careful fingers, wincing. "Did someone _hit_ me?"

"Looks like it," Porthos said grimly. "This time they really meant business. You must have been out for a good hour at least."

His meaning slowly filtered through to Athos' fuzzy brain, and he clutched at Porthos' arm in sudden alarm. "What time is it? Should you be on court?"

Porthos shook his head. "It's fine. Come on, let's get you to a doctor."

Athos stared at him, then looked up at Aramis' tight expression. "Tell me," he insisted. 

"If they're still holding serve we should be okay," Aramis said, avoiding Porthos' furious look. "If one side steamrollers it we're probably fucked."

Porthos sighed, and Athos grabbed him. "Get out of here," Athos said quickly. "Go, now."

"I'm not leaving you - "

"Yes. You are." Athos hauled himself to his feet and stood swaying. "I'll be fine. Now for fuck's sake, run. Both of you."

"I'll stay with him," D’Artagnan promised. "I'll see that he's okay."

Porthos still looked conflicted. "Athos - "

Athos took Porthos' face in his hands and kissed him with a quiet intensity. "I love you," he said. "Go."

Slowly, and to Aramis' relief, Porthos nodded. "I love you too," he whispered, kissing Athos back. Then he pointed sternly at D'Artagnan. "Look after him," he directed. D'Artagnan nodded, and finally the two players turned and raced away down the tunnel. 

Athos and D'Artagnan followed more slowly, Athos occasionally stumbling and finally accepting D'Artagnan's arm. "I'm fine," he insisted. "Just get me back up there. I've got a match to cover remember? I'm not missing this one."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "You're at least getting that head looked at first, or Porthos will be using my balls for service practice."

They emerged into the main complex and D'Artagnan implacably refused to let Athos head for the commentary box until he'd been to the medical centre. While Athos was getting his wound cleaned and examined they were relieved to discover from the screens that the previous final had only just finished, with Alice and Adele taking it at an impressive 10:8 in the third set, and the court was still being cleared from the subsequent awards ceremony. 

"They'll make it," D'Artagnan realised thankfully. 

"You still can too," Athos pointed out. "Go on, I'll be fine now."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "I'm taking this escort duty seriously," he grinned. "If you're really sure about going through with this when you should probably be on your way to hospital? Door to door service or nothing. Anyone tries to whack you a second time, I'll be ready for them."

True to his word, he accompanied Athos to the commentary box where he was greeted with initial hilarity and teasing until it was explained he'd met with an accident, whereupon his colleagues became abruptly more sympathetic. 

D'Artagnan waved and left them to it, racing back down to where the support team was assembling. His late arrival was at first met with rebuke by the supervisor and a reluctance to let him participate out on court but when he explained he'd been assisting two of the players, to his relief he was allowed to take part. He filed on with the rest, and was in position when the huge cheer from the crowd announced the appearance of the four finalists. He glanced up at the row of commentary booth windows beside the royal box. He knew Athos was in the end one, but couldn't see inside from here. He smiled, wondering if Athos could see him but guessing he would only have eyes for Porthos right now. 

With a certain satisfaction he found himself assigned to Porthos and Aramis' seats, to provide them with anything they wanted between games. Recognising him with surprise, Porthos gave him an anxious questioning look, and under the pretext of handing him a bottle of water D’Artagnan managed to whisper the news that Athos had been checked over and was fine, and not only safe but stubbornly ensconced in the commentary box.

Porthos slowly relaxed and breathed out, a weight taken off that he hadn't realised was there. He slapped Aramis on the knee purposefully, and casting a look up at the watching crowd, marched out to start warming up. Aramis winked at D'Artagnan and followed on his heels. 

\--

"So - here we are with Bonacieux and Rochefort versus Du Vallon and d'Herblay. Something of a French invasion today. But who will win the skirmish? Athos?"

"Indeed. And on paper at least, with the number one seeds against the number two it looks like it should be a tight match, and hopefully a good one. Bonacieux and Rochefort the defending champions here, will be keen to hang onto their crown. But I think we might find the others put up rather more of a fight than they're expecting."

"They've had a harder route to the final. Dropped several sets here and there, even had a couple of five setters. Rochefort and Bonacieux have yet to drop a set this year. They're looking to be on top form."

"And yet there's a chance that success could work against them. They've yet to really be tested. Whereas the number two seeds have made steady progress, they've had a lot of match-play, and they've dug in and hung on to get this far. They've shown they really want it, and I think this could be their year."

"Well, the top seeds won the toss and elected to serve, so with Bonacieux serving, love-all, first game, first set - here we go." 

\--

With the sun beating down out of a cloudless sky the match got underway. For the first five games everything went with serve as the players settled into their stride, trading a few points but holding reasonably comfortably. 

As they changed ends after a break, Rochefort murmured to Porthos as he passed. "Hear you guys went missing earlier. What's with that? Thought you were going to make us a present of the match for a while." He grinned and moved on, but Porthos was left with his thoughts in turmoil. 

It could easily have been an innocent remark, albeit one certainly designed to distract him from his service game, but the possibility that it was more than that, that one or both of the two players facing him had had a hand in what had happened to Athos - he felt the blood draining from his face, and jumped as Aramis' hand came to rest in the small of his back.

"Okay?" Aramis murmured, concerned by the suddenly sombre look on his partner's face.

"Yeah." Porthos shook himself. He had to concentrate, their opponents would be all over the smallest mistake. A few quiet words with Aramis on direction, and he moved to serve, wiping sweat out of his eyes and taking a deep breath. 

On the far side of the net, Rochefort was taking vicious practise swipes with his racquet and Porthos was suddenly seized by the memory of finding Athos lying unmoving and bloodied on the ground. He grimaced, watching his first serve smack solidly into the net. 

He centred himself, trying again, and his second serve went in, but it was too careful and he promptly saw it whizz back past him with the contempt it deserved.

Porthos pulled himself together enough to win the next point, only to grit his teeth as they lost the next two, leaving their opponents with two break points.

The harder he tried to concentrate, the tenser he got, and when his first serve was called out wide things only got worse. Porthos wiped his hands on his shorts, gripping his racquet firmly and sighting carefully down the line. 

The silence around the court was ringing in his ears as the audience scented early blood, and he found he was holding his breath as he threw up the ball, served - and then time seemed to stand still as it caught the tape at the top of the net and teetered for what seemed like aeons - before dropping back on his side of the court. Double fault, and a break of serve in favour of Rochefort and Bonacieux.

Porthos' shoulders slumped, and he felt sick. "Sorry," he mouthed to Aramis, shaking his head in self-recrimination.

"It's fine." Aramis patted him on the back reassuringly. "It happens. It's just one game. We can take it back."

But the others stood firm despite all attempts to penetrate their defences, and even though Aramis held to love and Porthos to his infinite relief held his next service game as well - the single break was enough and suddenly they were down a set.

Porthos threw himself into his seat and stared miserably at the ground. Aramis leaned closer, resting his elbows on his knees so only Porthos could hear him.

"Let it go," Aramis murmured, guessing that Porthos was blaming himself for the loss. "New set, clean slate. There's plenty of time yet."

Porthos looked at him, face tight with tension. "I can't stop thinking," he confessed under his breath. "What if they had something to do with what happened to Athos? I just want to strangle them with my bare hands."

"Do it with your racquet instead," Aramis advised quietly. "Trust me, taking this title from them would be far more suitable revenge. You let them get into your head, you're handing it to them on a plate."

Porthos felt his breathing ease a little, and was reminded with a strange sense of familiarity of the years spent playing with Athos, when it would be Athos calming him like this, with quiet words of strategy and sense. The papers had referred to them as fire and ice - Porthos had been the passionate one, supremely athletic, seemingly everywhere at once, no ball too wide he couldn't reach it, no lob too high he couldn't smash it at their opponents' feet. Athos had been the calm and calculating strategist, all precision placing and master of the world's most infuriating drop shot. For a while they'd been almost unbeatable, at least until the cracks had started to show. 

Porthos heard again Athos' words of the night before in his head. _"Win it for me."_ He felt a steadying sense of purpose slowly filling him and looked at Aramis with a new determination.

"Let's do this."

Their renewed drive saw them break Bonacieux's weaker serve not once but twice in the following set, taking it triumphantly 6:2 and returning to their seats to thunderous applause. While both pairs had their staunch supporters in the crowd, a lot of the spectators had remained from the previous matches and quickly adopted the perceived underdogs, much to the annoyance of Rochefort and Bonacieux.

The third set went with serve, neither side giving an inch despite the sweltering conditions and forcing a tiebreak which Aramis and Porthos slammed their way through 7:2 with a series of blistering groundstrokes.

Two sets to one up they started to feel that they could really do this, and for while things looked like they were going all their way until Aramis, second-serving at 30 all, was suddenly called out with a foot fault.

Thrown, he shot a look at the lineswoman that was more questioning than indignant, having been certain he was in the right position. She shook her head, gazing impassively back at him and he shrugged, returning his thoughts to the matter at hand. Now though, their opponents suddenly had a break point and wary of double faulting again it was Aramis' turn to be too cautious with his serve. 

Despite Porthos hurling himself half the width of the court to get his racquet on the return and ending up rolling over and over on the grass, his shot only made it as far as the net, and all of a sudden it was 5:6 and Rochefort was serving for the set. He took it, and Aramis and Porthos found themselves staring down the barrel of a fifth deciding set.

"Sorry," Aramis muttered gloomily, but Porthos slapped him on the back with a war-like grin of encouragement. 

"We've broken them before, we can do it again. What were you telling me earlier? Don't let it get to you."

Aramis shook his head, swallowing water thirstily and spilling half of it down his shirt. "Fucking foot fault," he muttered. "I can't believe I was that stupid."

Porthos shrugged, glancing over at the woman who'd make the call. He'd been positioned further in, and hadn't seen where Aramis was serving from. "Shit happens." 

Aramis stripped off his shirt to change it for a fresh one and the crowd hooted their loud approval, further irritating Bonacieux on the far side of the umpire's chair, who'd changed his in the last set to barely a murmur.

As it happened, they weren't the only ones observing the lineswoman in question. At the far end of the court, one of the ballgirls was staring at her intently, and as the players got up to open the fifth set, she found a chance to dash across to D'Artagnan, under the pretext of moving the balls up the court.

"That's her," Ellie hissed urgently.

"Who's her? Her what?" D'Artagnan looked up in surprise.

"The woman who just gave Aramis the footfault," Ellie whispered. "She's the one who gave me the message for Athos."

"What?" D'Artagnan stared back at her in startled confusion, but play was about to restart and they had no more opportunities to converse.

As the fifth set progressed, he kept a close eye on the woman in question. He'd never seen her before, although that in itself didn't mean anything, there were a lot of transient officials who only appeared for the duration of the tournament. D'Artagnan wondered whether to say anything to Aramis and Porthos, but remembered Athos' warning against distracting them and decided against it. All he could do was keep an eye on her decisions and make sure there was no funny business.

While the first few games progressed without incident, they were on the brink of breaking Rochefort's serve for the first time in the match, when Aramis' ball was called long. He gave it a hard stare, but it had been the far side of the court and he was prepared to let it go until his eye was caught by D'Artagnan standing in position at the back of the court, staring directly at him and shaking his head frantically. 

Aramis immediately raised his finger to challenge the call, and the replay showed it had been firmly on the line. With Rochefort staring daggers at them they were awarded the game and the break, and returned to their seats in a jubilant mood.

At the back of the court the lineswoman half turned to stare at D'Artagnan, having caught his obvious signal to Aramis. D'Artagnan stared back coldly, and gestured with two fingers from his eyes to hers, making it quite clear that he'd be watching her like a hawk. She turned away with blank disdain, but he knew his message had hit home. The match could still go either way, but at least now it would do so fairly.

Rochefort and Bonacieux were conferring behind their hands, and came out firmly on the attack. Porthos, serving, was forced three times back to deuce, before letting his frustration get the better of him and double faulting again, giving their opponents another break point. 

The next point was a long one, with all four men haring across the court for nearly twenty strokes before Aramis tried to lob Rochefort. It wasn't quite high enough, and leaping for it Rochefort promptly smashed it back across the net - right into Porthos' thigh.

He let out a loud bellow, more of surprise than pain, and the crowd booed loudly. Rochefort immediately held his hands up in apology, but the smirk on his lips wasn't missed by Aramis, who glared at him coldly before slinging an arm around Porthos on their way back to sit down, with the match back on serve once more.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." Porthos rubbed his leg absently, wondering what the hell Athos was making of it all, up in the commentary box. The sheer amount of adrenaline in his system right now meant it wasn't especially hurting yet, but he could tell he'd have a massive bruise later.

"Tell me we're going to beat the shit out of them though?" Porthos added, muttering behind his hand to shield his words from both the umpire and the ever present cameras. There'd always be some smart arse who was lip-reading. 

"We're going to wipe the court with them," Aramis agreed firmly. "And it's going to be beautiful."

The vicious move proved Rochefort's undoing, as Aramis and Porthos, seething with contained anger, proceeded to unpick Bonacieux's next service game point by point and break him to love. Aramis then held his own serve with the loss of just a single point, hammering down three aces in the process and forcing Rochefort to come out to serve at 5:2 down, needing to hold to stay in the match. 

At first it looked like he'd succeed, reaching 40-love up in just a few minutes. But Aramis and Porthos dug in and refused to give an inch, making them fight every step of the way, and somehow the others failed to close out the game. Deuce came and went so many times the crowd were starting to laugh, with Rochefort and Bonacieux never able to capitalise on any of their hard-won advantage points. 

Soon it was the longest game of the match by far, and everyone was starting to feel the effects. The sun was still beating down, and all the players were soaked in sweat. Porthos' leg was throbbing with every pace across the court, and Bonacieux had gone an unfortunate combination of queasy-green and sunburn-pink.

Finally a ball went seemingly wide past Aramis, and Rochefort immediately looked imperiously at the lineswoman. At the same moment, D'Artagnan turned to look at her too, knowing he risked a reprimand for moving out of turn, but determined she should know she was still being watched.

She called it out, a split second before the umpire made his own ruling anyway, and suddenly Aramis and Porthos had match - and tournament - point.

They bumped fists, too short of breath to waste words conferring. They knew each other well enough to understand what the other would do, which way they'd run depending on where Rochefort's serve landed. It came in at 120mph, right at Aramis' feet, but somehow he got it back in play and the next few seconds were a frantic and confused blur of instinctive reactions and hardened experience until the ball sailed up, slightly mis-hit off the frame of Bonacieux's racquet. To Porthos it felt like he had all the time in the world to reach up and fire it back across the net. It seemed to almost burn a track through the air as it slammed down, hitting the ground right between Rochefort's legs, leaving him looking abruptly pale as it bounced on out of the court and thumped into the wall at the back.

The crowd erupted and Porthos dropped to his knees with the realisation that they'd actually done it. Distantly he heard the umpire confirm the score and suddenly Aramis was all over him, hugging the breath out of him in vindicated triumph. He grabbed Aramis' hand and let him haul him back to his feet, embracing him gleefully before trotting quickly to the net to shake hands with their opponents.

Bonacieux and Rochefort both looked sick, and retreated to their chairs as quickly as possible while Porthos and Aramis stood out on the court soaking up the huge waves of applause that were still coming. They felt stunned, hardly able to process the fact that they'd won and couldn't stop smiling, feeling like their cheeks would split any moment.

From his vantage point in the commentary box, a jubilant Athos watched as Porthos leaned in to mutter something in Aramis' ear, then started jogging across the court away from the knot of players and officials starting to gather for the prize ceremony.

"Now where's he off to?" Athos wondered aloud as Porthos didn't stop at the edge of the grass but leaped the barrier and started climbing up through the rows of seating, to huge cheers and a lot of laughter. It wasn't unprecedented, several previous winners had made the infamous climb to the players' box to triumphantly hug family and loved ones - except Porthos didn't _have_ any family, and it was unlikely he'd be going to all that trouble just to see Treville.

As Porthos continued to climb through the seating, his destination abruptly became clearer and Athos' colleagues caught on at the same time as he did.

"I do believe he's coming our way," Athos heard, then jumped as he was slapped on the back. 

"I think he's heading to commentary box one," they announced. "Perhaps to see our very own Athos." Amused hands pulled his headset away and pushed him towards the door, and he reluctantly stepped outside to a rising roar of approval from the crowd. Enough of them were die-hard tennis fans to know who he was, to know he was Porthos' ex-partner and appreciate most of the significance of Porthos' headlong dash - if perhaps not the whole of it.

Blushing slightly, Athos stood there as Porthos reached the level of the door and promptly threw himself into Athos' arms, panting and sweating and triumphant. "We did it! We fucking did it!"

"You mad bastard," Athos breathed, holding him tight and hardly knowing whether to laugh or cry for sheer love of him. 

Porthos looked at him and grinned. He had a crazy urge, and no time to discuss it, just had to take it on trust that Athos wouldn't kill him for it. Before Athos could speak, Porthos pulled him close again and kissed him full on the mouth. 

The crowd went nuts. For some it was validation of a long held theory, for some it was a complete but mostly welcome surprise; other people had never heard of Athos before today but were appreciative of a suitably dramatic end to a fantastic match.

When Porthos pulled back, he was relieved to find Athos smiling, his eyes shining with amazed surprise. 

"I love you," Porthos whispered. "And I want everybody to know it."

Athos ducked his head, and gave Porthos a little push. "Get back down there," he smiled. "You're making a spectacle of yourself." Before Porthos could go, Athos pulled him back and kissed him again, prompting a fresh wave of applause from the crowd.

"I love you too," Athos told him. "And I'm so fucking proud." He grinned. "Now get back to work and stop making royalty wait for you."

Porthos glanced back down at the edge of the court where the Duke of Kent was by now waiting patiently to come on with the court officials and present the trophies, and gave a guilty smirk. "Oops."

He climbed back down to the court and rejoined Aramis with an apologetic if unrepentant smile. Aramis patted him on the back then put his arm around him, and together they presented themselves dutifully for the ceremony. Rochefort and Bonacieux still looked sick with disgust at the result and could barely muster a smile for the cameras as they held up their silver runners-up plates.

Aramis and Porthos though were smiling fit for twenty men, and paraded round the court for all the assembled press making the most of every second of their moment of glory. 

\--

Shepherded from courtside into an endless round of interviews, after a while Porthos looked up to see Athos hovering at the back of the conference room and shot him a grin. Athos gave him a smile of acknowledgement and leaned unobtrusively against the wall in a corner waiting for the pack of journalists to finally get through with them. 

While he was waiting, Treville came to stand next to him, but other than a curt nod he said nothing, and Athos was bemused to realise that rather than being all smiles as he surely should have been at this point, he had an expression like thunder. Athos decided wisely to say nothing, and it wasn't until the four of them were alone together in the changing room afterwards that Treville finally exploded.

"What the fuck were you playing at earlier?" he demanded.

Aramis shuffled his feet and looked guiltily at the ground. Porthos, who'd been hugging Athos madly, head full of so many things he wanted to say to him that he didn't know where to start, pulled back and looked startled. 

"What?"

Treville almost snarled. "Before your match. I came to look for you. Nobody could find you anywhere, we were on the brink of it being declared a walkover. If I find out that you - either of you - " his finger swung from Porthos to Aramis and back again - "risked this tournament for the sake of a quick fuck - " his finger went wider to take in Athos, who looked affronted.

"Well, you can blame me if you want," Athos said in a clipped tone. "As technically yes, I might have been lying down, but I was at least unconscious at the time."

It was Treville's turn to look taken aback. "What?"

The whole story came out then, from the delivery of the whisky through to their discovery of Athos out cold in the service tunnels. 

"And you've no idea who hit you?"

Athos shook his head. "Whoever it was, they came up behind me." He frowned, trying to piece together the last moments. "Heels. I vaguely remember the sound of heels." Athos looked up, surprised. "I think it might have been a woman." For a second he looked almost impressed. "Hell of a swing on her, to knock me out for the whole ladies' doubles final."

"Wait - " Treville held up a hand, staring at Athos. "Are you telling me you were unconscious for over an _hour_ and still went on to cover the next match?"

Athos shrugged. "Well. Yes."

"Are you clinically insane?" Treville dug in his pocket for his car keys. "You're coming with me. Now."

"Where to?" Athos looked surprised.

"A&E." 

"I'm fine." 

"We'll let the professionals be the judge of that, shall we?" Treville glared at him, daring him to object. He might not be Athos' coach any more but he still considered him one of his boys, and had a protective streak a mile wide for all of them, however gruff he might be to hide it.

Athos sighed. "Oh, very well." He slid an arm round Porthos' waist and kissed him on the cheek. "Guess we'll have to celebrate later. See you at home?"

Porthos shook his head. "Sod that, I'll come with you." He grabbed his bag and gave Aramis a quick hug. "Catch you tomorrow, yeah? Sorry I nearly ballsed things up earlier."

Aramis grinned at him, still on a high. "We got the result we wanted. Nobody ballsed anything," he assured Porthos. It was only after they'd all gone that he gave a slight sigh. Celebrations should certainly have been in order, but now he found himself abruptly on his own.

Just then the door cracked open again and he looked round, expecting one of the others to come back for something. Instead he found D'Artagnan looking in at him with a hesitant expression. "Is it alright? Can I come in?"

Aramis nodded, a smile spreading over his face. "Yes. Of course." D'Artagnan immediately stepped inside and closed the door firmly behind him before launching himself into Aramis' arms. As they staggered back against the tiled wall already kissing, Aramis reflected that he was about to get the pay-off he craved after all.

D'Artagnan's hand was stroking over the front of his tennis shorts and Aramis stiffened quickly under his fingers, turned on by his brazen approach and more than ready to go all the way right here in the locker room if that's what D'Artagnan was up for.

Before he could suggest anything, D'Artagnan had dropped to his knees and suddenly Aramis found he couldn't speak at all, as D'Artagnan rubbed his cheek along the thick line of Aramis' erection before following it with his mouth, breath warm and moist through the cotton.

Aramis reached out to steady himself on the changing bench, taking deep breaths to suppress the feeling that he was seconds away from coming in his underpants. There was a heavy ache in his balls that was growing more intense by the second, D'Artagnan's teasing lips doing their best to drive him crazy.

D'Artagnan hooked his fingers into the waistband of Aramis' shorts and pulled them down a short way, slowly exposing the tip of his cock and teasing it with a flick of his tongue.

Aramis groaned, resisting the urge to fist his hand in D'Artagnan's hair and force him into taking it all at once. He felt D'Artagnan's lips curve in a smile against his hip, before pressing open mouthed kisses in a wet line down the crease of his thigh. 

D'Artagnan eased Aramis' shorts down a little further, kissing him daintily on the head of his cock and smirking at the noise Aramis made, before his tongue flickered out again, licking at the slit.

"Fuck." Aramis clenched his hands tightly, feeling his legs starting to shake with tension. D'Artagnan took pity on him and finally pulled his shorts and pants right down to his ankles before wrapping a hand around his cock and sliding it into his mouth. He took Aramis wet and deep, sucking down on him with a slow and intense pleasure. 

Aramis was by now breathing hard, shoulders braced against the cold tiles of the wall, legs locked and trembling, the whole of his awareness concentrated on the wet, warm motion of D'Artagnan's mouth. Aramis had been sucked off by a lot of people in his time, but D'Artagnan was better than all of them, firm without being uncomfortable, confident without being showy, and above all unashamedly dirty.

He felt his orgasm approaching, a rising tide of pleasure centred on the soft strokes of D'Artagnan's industrious tongue, and groaned low in his throat. Sensing he was close, D'Artagnan re-doubled his efforts, his lips sliding spit-slick and swollen around Aramis' cock.

Aramis came with a loud and wordless moan of satisfaction, spilling into D'Artagnan's mouth and feeling him swallow around him again and again. Breathless and lightheaded, Aramis watched D'Artagnan sit back on his heels and wipe his mouth. At that angle, with his shorts stretched tight over his thighs, his own erection was obvious and Aramis held out a hand to him. 

For a second D'Artagnan looked almost surprised, as if he hadn't expected Aramis to reciprocate, and Aramis took a moment to kiss him thoroughly, making sure D'Artagnan understood his honest appreciation. It was important to Aramis that his lovers had as good a time as he did, however casual or fleeting they might happen to be.

Pressed together like this, Aramis could feel the insistent pressure of D'Artagnan's cock against his bare thigh, and wasted no more time in pulling down his shorts and pants. D'Artagnan groaned faintly, breath warm against his neck, and Aramis bent him forwards over the bench, hand around his swollen cock, working him hard with a steady wrist.

D'Artagnan was firm and warm in his hand and Aramis' fingers were soon slippery with pre-come, the wet noises of skin on skin as he jerked him off just audible over their laboured breathing. It didn't take long at all before D'Artagnan groaned, bending double and striping the dark green of Aramis' towel with thick white spurts of come.

"So." Aramis watched D'Artagnan pulling up his shorts and experienced a sudden sense of regret as he realised he might never see him again now the tournament was almost over. "What are you doing tomorrow?"

"Working," D'Artagnan told him. "Got to be around in case I'm needed on court for the junior finals." 

"In the evening?" It would be the champions' dinner, and Aramis was taken with the idea of walking in with D'Artagnan on his arm. 

"Sorry. Working again." D'Artagnan sounded brisk and matter of fact, and Aramis suddenly wondered if he was being turned down. He flushed, and dropped the matter. 

"Okay. Well. Thank you, anyway, for - for a great fortnight."

It was D'Artagnan's turn to blush, and Aramis pulled him into an impetuous hug which he was relieved to find D'Artagnan returned with interest. They kissed each other one last time, lingering over it with a sweetly sharp sense of parting, then D'Artagnan made for the door.

"Oh. There was one thing," D'Artagnan turned and Aramis was surprised by the spike of hope he felt.

"The lineswoman who gave you the footfault, and a couple of dodgy calls? She was the one who sent Ellie with the message for Athos."

"What!" Aramis stared at him, his disappointment that D'Artagnan hadn't changed his mind about staying fading in the face of his shock.

D'Artagnan nodded. "I looked for her afterwards, but there was no sign. Checked the roster, as far as I can tell she was listed as C. de Winter, but nobody seems to know anything about her. Looks like she was a late replacement for someone who was taken ill." He shrugged. "I don't know if that helps? If she was involved, she's probably long gone by now."

Aramis shook his head slowly. "I guess it's something to go on." He smiled. "Thank you. And - I never thanked you for what you did on court," he realised. "I'd have let that shot go if it wasn't for you. It was a turning point."

"Yeah, that was one of hers," D'Artagnan said darkly. Then he smiled. "Still, guess it's all over now. You did it. Champ." He grinned and punched Aramis on the arm, before finally turning to leave without a backward glance. 

Alone again, Aramis slowly sat down again on the bench, and sighed.

\--

It was late when Porthos and Athos finally got home. Athos had been poked, prodded and x-rayed and finally been given the all-clear barring a probable mild concussion. As they walked in the front door Athos yawned, and Porthos rubbed his back.

"How do you feel?"

"Okay. Bit of a headache, but otherwise not too bad. Considering." He smiled, and Porthos took him into his arms, shuddering at the thought of how it might have ended. 

"You should go to bed," Porthos advised, despite the fact he was still buzzing from his victory and felt like he wouldn't be able to sleep for hours.

"Mmmn. Coming with me?" Athos invited with a suggestive smile.

"Thought you had a headache?" 

Athos leaned in and brushed a kiss just below Porthos' ear, making him shiver. "Perhaps you could take my mind off it?" he whispered. "Besides, you're the conquering hero remember? To the victor the spoils, right?"

"Now there's a promise." Porthos kissed him intently, then smirked. "Hope that doesn't mean you'd have banged one of the others if they'd won?" Athos made a revolted face and he cackled. "Come on then. I don't have to carry you up the stairs slung over my shoulder do I?"

He followed Athos up to the bedroom, pinching his arse every other step and dodging out the way of Athos' slapping hand with a grin. Upstairs, he immediately tackled Athos from behind and bore them both down to the bed.

"Idiot." Athos struggled round onto his back, breathless and half-laughing. Porthos was on top of him, radiating heat and barely suppressed desire. He lifted Athos' hand and pressed it firmly against his own crotch, forcing Athos to fondle his erection through his shorts.

"Feel that?" Porthos growled quietly, leaning over him. "I've got such a fucking big load for you."

Athos let out a huff of breath, chest tight with arousal. He pulled Porthos down closer and kissed him hard, feeling his own cock starting to rise and thicken. He squirmed out from under Porthos' legs, turning back to quickly strip him of his tennis shirt and then drawing down his shorts and underwear.

Slowly he exposed Porthos' hard cock and bent to take him into his mouth. He loved the fact Porthos was so big, loved that sucking him made his jaw ache, loved the anticipation, knowing that soon all of that cock would be stretching him open, making him beg and moan. 

For now it was Porthos moaning, as Athos licked around him and took him in as far as he could. Porthos pushed between his lips, impatient and eager, and Athos wrapped his fingers around Porthos' hips to hold him steady. 

"Don't stop," Porthos groaned, when Athos sat up and kissed him instead, lips reddened and wet and irresistible. He returned the kiss with enthusiasm, pulling Athos into his lap and groaning again when he found Athos was as hard as him.

Athos shook his head. "I want you inside me," he breathed, voice tight and desperate. "I need you inside me. Right now."

Porthos flipped them over so Athos was sprawled on his back, efficiently stripping them both of their remaining clothing and pushing two of his fingers between Athos' lips. "Suck," he ordered, and Athos did as he was told, eyes wide and dark in the half-light from the landing, tongue swirling around Porthos' fingertips as he sucked on them, making Porthos draw in a sharp breath at the sudden spike of lust that ran through him.

"Fuck." Porthos shoved Athos' legs wider and delved between them, making him gasp as he worked wet fingers inside him.

Athos moaned, driving himself down harder onto Porthos' fingers, needing more, and Porthos laughed with delight. "You're so filthy," he whispered. 

"Shut up and fuck me," Athos instructed, although Porthos could see he was smiling. He smiled back, taking a moment to move over and scrabble for a condom in the bedside drawer while Athos' palms beat an impatient tattoo on his arse.

"I'm going to give you such a pounding," Porthos mock-snarled, making Athos snicker with triumph.

"I can take it," Athos promised in a whisper, kissing him again, biting at Porthos' lower lip and sucking it into his mouth, tongue soft and insistent against his own.

Porthos pushed Athos down and spread him, thrusting into him with barely restrained desperation. All the pent up energy he'd been fighting down since winning the match came spilling out, all the triumph and adrenaline and pride that he'd had to contain during the endless press conferences and then the hours waiting in the hospital, it all crashed over him like breaking waves of desire, Athos not just taking it but cherishing and loving every tempestuous instant of it, reflecting his own need and longing back at him like a mirror to his soul. 

They clung to each other, chests heaving for breath, bodies slick with sweat and joined as one, Athos with his head thrown back as Porthos moved inside him, slower now but just as intent, thrusting into him over and over, at just the right angle to make him see stars. 

Athos came with a groan, his devastating climax making him shudder from head to foot. Porthos held him tightly all the way through it, feeling Athos quivering against him, the wetness of his release coating both their chests.

When Athos could breathe again Porthos started moving once more, pushing into him with a renewed vigour for a few fast strokes before pulling out completely and slipping the condom off with one hand. He knelt up and fisted his cock quickly with the other, working himself roughly as he gazed down at Athos lying beneath him.

It didn't take him long to come, and he bit his lip in moaning pleasure as he painted wet stripes across Athos' chest and belly. 

Finally sated, Porthos dropped down beside him and wiped the worst of the mess from them both with his discarded shirt. After that they crawled under the covers and kissed for a long time, slow and loving and tender now the passion had all been comfortably ridden out. 

"How's your leg?" Athos murmured after a while, sleepily enjoying the sensation of being completely enveloped in Porthos' arms. "I never asked, what with everything else. Fucking Rochefort - I came this close to getting suspended for swearing on air."

Porthos laughed quietly, knowing that Athos with his infinite control had almost certainly done nothing of the sort. Although he might have tutted, which for the BBC would have been condemnation enough.

"I'm alright. It's sore, but the worst I'll get is a fuck-off great bruise." He propped himself up and looked down at Athos, face suddenly serious. "How are _you_ feeling?" Feeling abruptly guilty that barely two hours ago Athos had been having his skull x-rayed and here he was having just fucked him half through the mattress.

"Better for being here with you," Athos murmured, running a fingertip down Porthos' spine. 

Porthos though, had started thinking about the attack again, and how much worse it could have been. If Athos' assailant had hit him harder, or in a different place, or they hadn't found him, or - Porthos shivered.

"Porthos? What's wrong?" Athos kissed him softly on the temple, having felt him tense up.

"When I found you lying there earlier - I thought - just for a second, I thought - " Porthos broke off, burying his head in Athos' shoulder and having to control himself for a moment. Athos held him close, peppering kisses in his hair with a reassuring ferocity. Finally Porthos gave a shaky laugh at all the pecking and looked up again, regarding Athos with eyes gleaming with held back tears. 

"Made me realise," Porthos said hoarsely. "I don't know what I'd do without you. Before you - I had nothing. No-one. You gave my life a shape Athos, made it mean something." He gave Athos a crumpled smile, leaning into the hand Athos was cradling his face with. "I need you, Athos. Maybe more than you need me," Porthos whispered.

Athos smiled. "I doubt that," he said softly, knowing there was a very real possibility that if it hadn't been for Porthos he might not have made it this far. 

Porthos covered Athos' hand with his own and turned his head to press a kiss to Athos' palm. "We need each other then," he said.

"Perhaps just the way it should be." Athos drew Porthos down into his arms again and kissed him gently, stroking his hair, hands gliding soothingly down his back.

Porthos made a contented noise, settling at Athos' side and pulling him as close as possible. After a second he sniffed, although it was more an assessing sniff than a tearful one, then raised his own arm and sniffed again, making a face.

"Christ, I'm offending myself," Porthos muttered. "Should I go and shower?" Realising he'd never managed to get round to it since coming off court.

"No." Athos burrowed into him and closed his eyes. "Too tired. Let's just sleep in our own filth."

Porthos grinned. "I knew I loved you for a reason." 

\--

At nearly midnight the players' centre was deserted and the only sound was of high heels clicking imperiously down the corridor towards the exit.

"I paid you to do a job. _Milady._ "

The unexpected voice made her stop in her tracks and turn slowly. Richelieu was standing behind her a little way up the corridor and she reflected not for the first time that the man could move as silently as a bat when he wanted to.

"And you gave me the impression your team were the better players," she retorted coldly. "If a couple of points were enough to lose them the match - "

"You were _supposed_ to be my insurance!" Richelieu growled.

"One of the ball boys was onto me. I'd already made two suspect calls, if I made another I ran the risk of being exposed. And I'm sure you wouldn't want that - for both our sakes."

Richelieu narrowed his eyes at the implied threat. "As for that debacle with Athos - I told you to distract them, not half-kill someone! What the hell were you thinking?"

"If I'd only locked him up he might have escaped. I had to make it look good. It would have worked, but they found him too early. I sent someone down to give them the message that he'd gone missing, but they'd somehow already gone looking for him." She shrugged dismissively. "You can't win them all."

"Winning them all is the _point_!" Richelieu hissed. "I want my money back."

"Sorry. Spent it."

They glared at each other. After a while, Milady relented a little. However much it annoyed her, he was technically right. "Fine, how about Flushing Meadows? I'll do you a discount."

"You'll do it for free. Or I'll crucify you." It wasn't entirely clear whether Richelieu was being metaphorical or not, and she made a mental note that if he became too much of a threat he might need neutralising.

"As you wish." She gave him a slightly mocking bow. "You might want to get your boys to practise a little first though. I can smooth their way, but I can't polish a turd." She pushed through the doors and vanished before the spluttering Richelieu could come up with a suitable reply.

\--

Richelieu was stalking across the darkened carpark when Treville stepped out in front of him and he almost growled, feeling that the day was going from bad to worse.

"What are you doing here?" Richelieu snapped ungraciously.

"Looking for you." Treville folded his hands in front of him. He was lying, but there was no reason to let Richelieu know the truth where a convenient lie would unsettle him more. He'd actually returned here after dropping off Athos and Porthos, having still been with them when Aramis called to relay D'Artagnan's information about the mysterious lineswoman.

Treville had promised he'd investigate, it being at the time the only way to convince Athos to go home to bed. Unfortunately the name C. de Winter seemed to be a false one, as did all her registered contact details, and oblivious to the fact that the object of his enquiries was at that very second driving at speed out of the far exit, Treville had reached a dead end. Athos had flatly refused to involve the police, saying it would detract too much from Porthos and Aramis' well-deserved attention, and reflect badly on the tournament.

"And?" Richelieu made a show of looking impatiently at his watch.

"I just wanted to let you know. That if I ever find out you had any hand in what happened to Athos today, I will end your career," Treville said in a dangerously calm tone.

"I have no idea what you mean."

"I hope not. For your sake." 

"Enjoy your success while it lasts," Richelieu said distastefully, starting to walk away. "Next year we'll take the title back, don't you worry."

"It's good you have something to look forward to," Treville called after him. "Because for now, runner up? From where I'm standing it's still called losing."

\--

The next day was Sunday and the final day of the championships, with the men's and mixed doubles' finals playing out to packed crowds. Aramis watched the singles for a while and then drifted across to watch the juniors on court number one, telling himself it was important to support up and coming talent and that it had nothing to do with anyone who might or might not be fetching their balls. 

Regardless, there was no sign of D'Artagnan on court and Aramis returned home to dress for the champions' dinner that evening with a nagging feeling that he couldn't quite identify and refused to consider might be loss.

Aramis arrived early and alone, and was standing at the bar eyeing the talent in the room with less than his usual enthusiasm when he was hailed from behind.

"Evening gorgeous." 

Aramis turned round to find Porthos grinning at him, Athos at his side. "Hey." He smiled broadly, embracing them both. "How are you?" he asked Athos, glad to see he was looking better. He'd had a text from Porthos earlier on during the men's final to say they were both staying at home to give Athos a chance to recover.

"Good, thanks. Clean bill of health. A good night's sleep and a decent meal, all I needed really."

"And I'm sure Porthos made sure you got something approximating to both," Aramis murmured with a knowing smirk, making Athos choke with stifled laughter and Porthos punch him in the arm. "Ow!"

"Where's D'Artagnan, anyway?" Porthos demanded. "Thought you'd have invited him along. Or is he yesterday's news now?"

Aramis flushed a little. "I was going to, but he's working. Apparently."

They sat down at a table and started picking with interest at the various bowls of things set out to eat before the main courses arrived. A waiter brought over a complimentary bottle of champagne, but Porthos stretched out his hand to forestall him. "No, thank you."

Athos though, shook his head. "Don't be daft." He signalled to the waiter to continue, although kept his hand over his own glass. "It's fine," he told Porthos quietly. " _I'm_ fine. If I wasn't, I wouldn't be here - I couldn't be. Have fun, you deserve every second of it." He looked back at the waiter and smiled. "Could I just have an orange juice please? Plenty of ice."

They'd been sat there a while, watching the first few brave people moving onto the dance floor and waiters starting to bring out plates of food when Aramis sat bolt upright, staring across the room. Athos and Porthos turned to see what he was looking at, and finally realised that one of the waiters was D'Artagnan.

"Guess he really was working," Porthos murmured, but Aramis was already out of his seat and making his way across the room.

"D'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan turned and almost dropped his tray, Aramis helping him steady it quickly. 

"Aramis. Hi." He put the tray down carefully, pushing his hair back and looking flustered but not entirely surprised.

Aramis held his palms up. "Why didn't you say this was where you were working?"

D'Artagnan blushed, hanging his head a little. "I was only supposed to be working in the kitchens, but they were short-handed." He looked up at Aramis and sighed. "Look, I'm just a catering skivvy. A nobody. And you're a hot shot tennis star, man of the moment. Next week you'll be halfway across the globe and hooked up with someone else. I'm not daft, I know this isn't - that I'm not - " He winced, wishing Aramis would interrupt him. "We've had a good time, yeah? I know that's all it was. I suppose I didn't want you to have to tell me goodbye."

Aramis waited to be sure he'd run out of stuttering things to say, then continued to stare helplessly at him. D'Artagnan shifted uncomfortably. "What?"

"I was going to invite you," Aramis said. "Tonight. As my plus one."

D'Artagnan looked startled. "You were? Really?"

"Really." Aramis made up his mind and held out his hand. "Dance with me?" 

D'Artagnan looked around, blushing darker than ever. "I'll get fired," he protested, but he was smiling.

"Fuck 'em. Dance with me," Aramis insisted, and this time D'Artagnan didn't object as he was lead out onto the dance floor. They moved to the music, at first just next to each other, then holding each others' hands, and finally in each other's arms, pressed together chest to hip, and gazing into each others' eyes. The kiss that followed felt inevitable and natural and seemed to last forever.

Across the room Athos nudged Porthos and nodded at where Aramis and D'Artagnan were now dancing together, slow and close, D'Artagnan's head resting on Aramis' shoulder.

"Do you think it's true love?"

Porthos snorted. "It's always true love with Aramis. Ask me again in a week."

"I thought I was supposed to be the cynical one?" Athos murmured. Porthos leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, but Athos turned his head and captured his mouth. Porthos made a noise of protest, awkwardly conscious of the champagne he'd been drinking, but Athos pulled him closer, deepening the kiss, his lips warm and eager, tongue soft and insistent in Porthos' mouth.

"You shouldn't - " Porthos breathed, resting his forehead against Athos'.

Athos smiled at him, sheepish and sleepy-eyed. "Couldn't resist. Besides, you mostly taste of olives." 

They looked at each other and laughed quietly, hands tangling together on the table. It was a new feeling, to be this open about things in public, and both were enjoying the novelty.

\--

"You okay?" Aramis murmured, enjoying holding D'Artagnan in his arms, but worried that he was unusually quiet. 

"Yeah." D'Artagnan looked up at him. "It's just - this doesn't change anything, does it? This time tomorrow you won't even be in the country any more. You'll forget me."

Aramis held his gaze. "You could come with me?"

"I - what?" 

"Come with me." Aramis stopped dancing and took D'Artagnan's hands. "I'm serious."

"As - what?" 

Aramis shrugged. "I don't know. We'll figure something out. I just won a shit-load of prize-money for a start, so it's not like you'd have to worry about working for a while." He grinned, and D’Artagnan laughed, half-disbelieving. 

"You want me to be a kept man?" he teased.

Aramis drew him closer and kissed him. "All I know is, I want you to come with me," he said quietly. "Everything else we can work out later. Say yes."

D'Artagnan laughed, shook his head, and smiled helplessly back at him, biting his lip.

"Yes."

\--

Athos and Porthos looked up as Aramis rejoined them, this time hand in hand with D'Artagnan.

"He's coming with us," Aramis announced, a little defiantly. "Back to Paris." Looking around as if expecting an objection.

Porthos shrugged. "Okay." He winked at D'Artagnan, who smiled back shyly.

"Congratulations," Athos murmured, giving Porthos an amused look and pushing the champagne bottle towards D'Artagnan. "Here, help yourself. You can have my share."

D'Artagnan laughed then, finally relaxing as he realised they didn't think he was some kind of gold-digger, leaning against Aramis' side and throwing his apron under the table as Aramis poured him a drink. 

Athos raised his orange juice. "To the new champions," he proposed. 

Porthos shook his head. "No, to us. To _all_ of us. Everyone round this table's done something worth toasting this week. And long may it continue."

The four of them clinked glasses in the middle of the table, three champagne flutes and a glass of tinkling ice, and echoed his words with a smile. 

"To us."

\--


End file.
